We were love dancing in gardens of crotons. And nights were spent by kerosene lamp greening our fingers with pods of broad beans and peas. And our ears were regaled with ghosts and tragedies and the battles she’d fought. And she was the hurricane. And everything had to be uncomfortably clean and neat. Meals were trips to heaven. And the mornings dewed our feet and we’d witness the rising sun. And life was tethered to planting and reaping. And being simple. And being decent. And going to church. And her life as a girl felt like another century. And time would shrink her to fit into my arms. Then she was no more. And now her history lives every day on my tongue.